The Catalans: A Novel (26 page)

The refrain again, the last few bars repeated, then the end: the final thump; the hands went in, shook once, and then the rings were broken. Through the breaking rings, separating the last clasping hands, a figure came, a bear again, and lurching too; but this was the power of drink undoubtedly, for the lurching, staggering, swooping pace was not the formal lumbering of a feast-time bear. It had no train of friends behind it, no feigned keeper with a cardboard club; and it was clearly searching, for it scanned the tables and the walking crowd. It swerved and staggered, swooped and nearly fell: it ran in a wide arc on the empty Place and fetched up standing as it saw Alain and Xavier. It stood there swaying, and for a moment it fixed them with a heavy stare, trying to make certain that this was what it looked for.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” it said—it spoke in French. “We all admire your masks. But Monsieur le Maire must have a higher one”—it belched—“to accommodate the horns, you know.”

It nearly fell, and bellowed out, “You are a cuckold: don’t you know? You are a cuckold, mayor, old lawyer Roig. And Alain’s horned you every night these three weeks past . . . three weeks .
. . past.” The voice faltered; and in the complete silence of the Place they heard it whisper “Three weeks past” again, before the hubbub of artificial conversation drowned and pressed it down.

The bear went off, slowly and with more even steps, and the pig’s face and the painted simper, rigid, silent, facing square into the crowd, gave no outward sign but immobility.

CHAPTER TEN

A
S HE HURRIED
through the dark and narrow streets the music reached him in waves, swelling at the corners of the downhill alleys, dying as he passed them. It was the jiggety-jig of common dancing now: the sardana was over, and now the whole Place was a slow whirlpool of joined couples, shuffling round and round and round.

He had left the café after half an hour, a half-hour in which they both sat silent, motionless behind their impassive masks. He had said good night to Xavier, who had made no reply; and he had said good night as he passed the noisy table where his other cousins sat. At the corner of the little street that first led up the hill he had stopped a lurking boy, young Joan Escampeyrou, and whipping off the boy’s stockinet bag he had clapped on his own pig-mask in its place. So now he had a plain black bag with eyeholes, covering his face entirely.

In the streets there was no light: here and there, far spaced, there was an arched bulb which made the darkness stronger, but in the streets no windows lit, no open doors, no golden chinks behind the shutters. As he passed through the arcades it was like a village that had died, for here the sound was quite shut out, and the soft padding of his espadrilles was clearly to be heard. Even the cats moved strangely, flitting like wild creatures across his path, coming from the darkest pools of shadow and vanishing into them again.

But here at the corner were two lovers clasped, motionless and silent, bolt upright. Before he could distinguish what they were his heart beat loud for a moment; then he smiled. I must take care of them on the wall, he said. But the wall was quite deserted.

It was warm up there: the setting sun had swallowed up the wind, and the night was as still as a pall. It had been cold in the tower, where the sun had not pierced for seven hundred years, and going up the winding stairs he had shivered with the chill of those centuries on his back. But on the ramparts the heat welled up: it came from all directions, and even through his shoes he felt the warmth.

He was leaning now on the inward side, making certain of his bearings: he knew the place and every inch of it, but he wanted to be certain twice. That flood of light was the Place, of course: it was a waltz they were playing now, tweedle-dee, tweedle-dee, tweedle um-tum-tum. How they would be spinning, down there beneath the trees. Would Xavier be dancing? Custom and civility demanded it.

Then that dim, half-seen light was the averted church-tower clock: yes, he had been exactly right, and twenty paces to the left along the wall would bring him to the angle.

There was no hint of light behind the shutters in any of the houses as he went cautiously along the wall. Once a dog barked, but not with any urgency: once a pair of cats rushed yowling in the dark street below: but there he was, and undisturbed, on the corner of the wall, a flat angle without a tower, leaning over, within a whisper’s reach of her roof.

He stared through the darkness at the house, and an English verse ran through his head, an insistently recurring verse.

He set her on a milk-white steed,

And himself upon a gray:

And he never turned his face again

But he bore her quite away.

He had learned it from his grammar when he was learning English first; and at that time, the language being almost unknown to him, he had discovered a beauty and a poignance in it that perhaps an Englishman would never have detected. The beauty and the poignance were perhaps no integral part of the verse: perhaps they were the product of the mystery of the language and the unfamiliar rhythm. But still the verse lodged deep in his mind (he neither knew nor had looked for the beginning or the end) and still it haunted him; and now he repeated it again.

He set her on a milk-white steed,

And himself upon a gray:

And he never turned his face again

But he bore her quite away.

“It certainly borders upon the ridiculous, however,” he added, after a pause.

But there was no light in the house: it was dark, closed-in, and shuttered; and it had a repellent air of complete withdrawal. He could not see a shutter, no target for the little stones he carried in his hand. And until he remembered that this was the blind side of the house he stood and wondered, revolving schemes of leaping to the roof—too far, uncertain, no retreat. But farther round the angle, at the beginning of the straight again, he would have a sideways view of the house’s other face: and now his eyes, wide open like a night bird’s, could see the tracing of a shutter lit.

He threw a stone: but he might have thrown it into a well of darkness. He never heard it land. It was his aim that was at fault, no doubt, for it was a difficult throw, oblique and in the night. As well as that his heart was beating high, and as he leaned on the parapet he felt his arm trembling, although it was not cold. More carefully he threw a handful all together: this time they rattled on the wood. They rattled on the shutter, but that was all; no motion in the house, and behind the window no movement of the light.

Well: he should have known that. So many, many times she must have heard the pebbles in the night: she would not open for an unknown fling of gravel. Yet still he tried again: with no result. Was she asleep? For a long time he waited. There was one untiring cricket in a crevice in the wall, and far away behind an owl was hunting through the olive trees and vines.

No, she was not asleep. She was singing very softly, and there was a creaking on the stairs. The song was a little louder: she had certainly come up the stairs. He strained, but he could not catch the words. A flamenco song, profound and sad, with those long falling half-tone quavers. She had come much nearer to the window now.

“A la mar fui por naranjas,

Cosa que la mar no tiene . .
.”

He threw another stone, and the singing stopped, cut off. Far from the Place came the sound of laughter. Another stone, a handful more: but the shutters still were closed.

“The roof is the only thing,” he said, and he measured the distance down. A shocking drop, as far as he could judge. He lit a match, which made a round of light and showed the velvet outer darkness pressing in. He should have brought a torch, he said, as he swung himself up to the parapet.

He sat with his feet dangling over the emptiness a moment, and then considered all the plan again. “Why, you fool,” he said, “why not go and tap at the door like any Christian?”

Down the dark tower and the steps: how still it was. Here was the door. He rapped.

“Who is it?” she asked, above.

“Alain,” he whispered. He whispered it, ludicrously, through the letterbox. Pyramus with a ferro-concrete wall.

“Who?”

“Alain Roig.”

Steps on the stairs: the door went just ajar, most cautiously. “Who?” she said again.

“Alain.”

“Oh,” she said—a doubtful Oh. But she appeared there in the wider gap. With an automatic gesture Alain raised his hand; but finding neither hat nor cap but bag it faltered, at a loss.

“Alain?” she said again.

“Yes.” He had the bag off now. “I beg your pardon for coming at this time, but . . . Please may I come in?”

They were talking in whispers; and in the distance the music came booming through the darkness.

“Have you just come from the feast?” she asked, still not retreating from the door.

“Oh, I am not drunk or fooling, I assure you, Madeleine,” he said, with a sober vehemence that carried force.

“No. No, I did not think for a moment that you were,” she said with a nervous laugh. “But you see, it is so awkward, with this divorce and .
. . You will excuse me, won’t you please? We will meet tomorrow.”

“The divorce is through.”

“Oh my God,” she said.

Then after some time she said in a low voice, “I am so sorry I cannot ask you in just now.”

“Then please come out with me. It is so important. I must talk to you, Madeleine.” He felt the sudden grip of despair as she hesitated still.

“Is it really so important? Would it not do tomorrow? The morning is so nearly here.”

“No. Please,
please
, Madeleine. I have to talk to you now.” Was it all going to fall to pieces?

She reached back and blew out the lamp. “Where shall we go?” she said. He was irradiated with instant happiness, and he said “Thank you. Oh thank you very much.”

He took her arm and they went slowly, feeling their way through the dark. Out of nothing she said, “This evening someone was throwing stones against my window. You expect it on a night like this.”

Alain said, “I threw the stones. I have been up there on the wall for a long time, wondering how to reach you.”

They went a few more steps in silence, and Alain said, “Let us go up on to the wall. We cannot wander among all the people in the town.”

Up the pitch-black steps he led her by the hand, and they were on the rampart, leaning side by side against the inner wall.

For some time they were silent. Alain had not thought he could be so moved: he tried hard to control his throat, but when he spoke his voice was trembling. He said “I wanted you to marry me, you see . .
.”

He felt a moment of the most acute embarrassment, and then he said, almost angrily, “I am not playing with emotion, on my word. I love you, I love you, Madeleine. I cannot find the words. But marry me: please marry me.” The tumult of his spirits rose, almost to choke him.

“. . . walk along the wall,” she was saying.

In the darkness, as they paced slowly from the tower, arm linked in arm, his voice came, surprisingly close to her ear, “It would be such a kindness, don’t you see? I do admire you so.”

Silence. Then desperately, “I know you can hardly feel any strong romantic emotion about a man like me. But I would make no demands.”

She pressed his arm: but she said nothing, and when they had walked a long way he said, almost conversationally now, “In Prabang there is the forest—trees of crimson flowers. And the people wear blue cotton and huge mushroom hats: they are the kindest people in the world. In the garden of the bungalow there are mango trees and durriens. And orchids. Prithiane is not far away, and there are all kinds of shops. My colleagues are all charming men, and some of them have wives. There is Tianou for holidays and the bad weather—that is very much more Chinese: you can get jade and silk in the Chinese shops, and there is the Malay bazaar, where the Arabs come. Lacquer. In the harbor there are junks and sampans: you can take a boat to Bali or Singapore. The old men and little boys fly kites.”

They turned, by one consent, and went slowly toward the corner tower. He went on desultorily, describing the fantastic jungle birds and flowers, covering the unbearable suspense. Once she asked him what a lichee was. Suddenly he felt he could not evade it any more. “Still, that is not it,” he said. “In this I cannot be giving: it is you that must do that, and I beg and pray that you will. I am so lonely there: and now I love you. I think it would break my heart to go back, living there alone.” He had been impelled to this: it was the decisive step, and now he wished it all unsaid. The cruel beat of time stretched out and out.

“And Xavier?” she said.

“No promise made to him?”

“No. No promise. But you know . . .”

“I know. Poor devil. But the thought of you and Xavier makes my very soul revolt. I am not betraying him, I promise you. I told him that it was wicked to try to force your mind. He knows exactly what I think.”

“He has been very kind to me, very kind. But I am afraid of him. And I am so very sorry too . .
. He watches me from up here sometimes. I have seen him in the moonlight on the wall.” Her hand was beating on his sleeve in desperate agitation. “And there is your family. Madame Margot. I could not do it, Alain.”

He leaned her against the wall: there were tears upon her cheek, and he felt the fragility of her shoulders in his arms.

“We can go to Marseilles and take the boat from there,” he said. The ebullience in his chest was painful now, the happiness oppression almost more than he could bear.

“I was a half-dead man until this last month past,” he said; and vividly he recalled the sweetness of her forehead in the vineyard on the hill.

Silently they stood there, pressed as if they could never move again. Descending, his mind ranged furiously over the immediate needs of the next few hours. “We must go tonight,” he said, “and go while it is dark. You pack your things—pack just what you need and I will get a car. Côme’s car, I think. At dawn we shall be beyond Narbonne. Oh Madeleine, thank God you came. I love you so.”